


Compromised

by ACB1



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-11
Updated: 2015-02-12
Packaged: 2018-03-11 15:43:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3331043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ACB1/pseuds/ACB1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Liz is convinced to visit Red after the events with Luther Braxton.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my small attempt to work out some of the last two episodes. It will be a two-parter.

She moved through the bar in a haze. She was several drinks in now, and the high she had felt that led her to the establishment a couple of hours earlier had worn off. And, now she felt miserable, alone and more than a little drunk. 

Her discovery – found inside her childhood bunny – had brought her momentary joy. It meant something. It could give her the upper hand – maybe. It could give her answers. It could allow her to rely on herself instead of on those who hid her memories from her, as Dr. Orchard suggested she may have to do to retrieve the past fully. Masha. Who is Masha? “You are,” her younger self had said. Young Lizzie knew. She knew who she was, that there were secrets, to hide and stay hidden. She had been smart. 

But, today? Adult Lizzie felt stupid. She had been played, strummed beautifully by the maestro himself, over and over again. To the point where she knew the tune so well she didn’t even need his direction anymore. The melody was inside of her, memorized, at the ready, bursting at the mere sight of him. She could and would play for him with little or no prompting. How she loathed the weakness, the neediness, inside of herself that had allowed him to settle there so quickly and comfortably. 

“My Life as a Pawn,” she muttered as she walked, unsteadily, to the front of the bar. First, Tom and Berlin, and now Red, and even Luther Braxton. But, then again, maybe not first Tom. Maybe first her parents, maybe first the government. Who knows where it started or where it leads? She certainly didn’t. 

She approached the mahogany bar and seated herself on an empty stool. She had gotten tired of waiting for service at her table in the back. The dark corner had served its purpose; she had gotten sufficiently numb undetected, quietly and without fanfare. 

She ordered another shot of Tequila when the bartender made his way to her. He hesitated before agreeing to serve her, looking over her shoulder first before nodding. What the hell? She turned around and saw Dembe standing close behind her. She groaned. “What? He has people watching me again? Is he deciding how much I can drink now?” she asked, angrily. She lifted the shot that had just appeared and tilted it toward him in a mock toast. “To Red. You can tell him – from me – to go to hell.” She lifted the shot glass to her mouth and drained it. She slammed the glass back down on the bar, looking at him defiantly.

Dembe remained silent and impassive. She had always liked him. She almost hated speaking cruelly to him, but she couldn’t soften. No matter how kind he had been to her in the past. He turned his attention to the middle-aged man seated next to her on the neighboring stool. The harmless-looking guy had been watching their exchange with interest. A few seconds into Dembe’s frosty stare, the man got his beer and left. Dembe took a seat. 

“Look, Dembe, I don’t need you here or want you here. Okay? Now, just go. Tell him whatever you need to tell him. Just leave me alone. Both of you need to leave me alone,” she struggled with her words, slurring together as they had begun to do. 

“Liz,” he spoke quietly and calmly, as always. His voice was a soothing balm to her careening, mushy brain. “He didn’t ask me to come here. He doesn’t know where I am. He isn’t having you followed. I followed you.”

She nodded. Of course. Again, how could she have been so stupid as to forget already. Red didn’t care about her. She was nothing to him. There was no special connection. Just the need for a thing. A thing she didn’t have or know how to get. She had been his manipulation, a means to an end. And, it hurt so badly that for just a moment she struggled to breathe. 

“I needed to talk to you, Liz. And, he would have never allowed it. What I plan to tell you will make him very angry,” he said.

“So, you are defying him? Why?” He had her interest now.

“Because if you do not understand something right away, I am afraid for the future – for your future and Raymond’s,” he said, his tone deadly serious. 

“Okay. Tell me, then,” she said. 

“Not here,” he said, motioning for the bartender. He ordered two coffees to go and led her to the car. 

Once they were settled, and she had several sips of the strong black coffee in her. He began his story. He told her about his family, the massacre that took their lives and his enslavement. Then, he told her of his rescue by Red, the care and kindness he was given, the education he received and the bond forged – stronger than brothers. His loyalty to Red was untested, unwavering – until now. Her tears came quickly and quietly for him, a sensitive soul who had seen and experienced unthinkable horrors. 

“Why are you telling me this now?” she asked, softly. 

“We are not so different, Liz,” he explained. “Our families were stolen from us. Our innocence and the peace and safety that are supposed to accompany childhood were taken from us. But, we were both saved, given futures.”

“Red saved you, Dembe. And, I am so glad he did,” she said, earnestly. “But, he didn’t save me. He has used me, all of this time. Sam gave me my childhood. He gave me a future, a life.”

“Are you so sure, Liz?” he asked, gently. “Are you so sure that Red did not have a hand in making certain of your safety? I ask you this, because I know him. I understand more than he’d like me to about how he thinks and feels. And, now I will say what he may never forgive me for saying – you need to see his back. He will never show you willingly, but come back with me now, and I will show you while I can.”

“Dembe, what are you talking about?” Her head hurt. She was beginning to sober up a little, but her head was pounding in time with her heart. It was creating a disorienting effect, and she needed to sleep. She did not want a confrontation with Red. Dembe’s story and affection for Red aside, Liz needed to remain resolved in her belief that Red did not care for her. It was the truth, and she needed to live in reality, not the fantasy he delivered her day after day. The truth made it all easier. It forced her to focus on the work of figuring out her past, finding her own answers her own way. No more Red to dictate, to make her sing. No more manipulation. No more pretending. No more getting hurt.

“Will you come with me?” he asked, even as he started the car. She had walked to the bar after her discovery. That was hours ago. It was cold now and late. 

“I want to go home,” she said. “I can’t do this with you.”

“Liz,” he looked at her now with the frightening gaze he gave the man in the bar. “I need you to see. Then, you can decide what to do from there. You need to understand, or we will not be able to move forward – any of us.”

He eased into traffic, ignoring her final plea to take her home. She could only fight him so much; her head demanded quiet, so she leaned back and closed her eyes. The quiet car, the lulling movement of the luxury sedan, made slumber easy. She slept until they arrived at a farmhouse about an hour outside of town. 

Dembe woke her gently. When she sat up, she realized her mistake: “Where the hell are we?”

“Our current safe house,” he answered, casually. 

They were in the middle of nowhere. How was she going to get back home now? If this went badly, she was screwed. Powerless. She would have to rely on their help to get back to town. She should never have come here. Red didn’t want her here, no matter what Dembe believed. She was so angry with Red and herself for beginning to care about him. Why did she do this? Put herself out there, again, like a fool. And, that was the real problem wasn’t it? She felt like such a fool.

“Liz,” Dembe must have been calling her, urging her toward the door. “Please, we must hurry.” 

“Whatever you want me to do here, Dembe, is a bad idea. I think you know it is, too. Just take me back, and we can forget all of this,” she pleaded.

“We can’t. Follow me in, quietly,” he instructed. He unlocked the door with practiced ease and placed his keys in his pocket. Without turning on any lights, he led her to the stairs. 

She trailed behind him up to the second floor and then to the second door on the right in the hallway. He stopped then and turned around facing her. “Go in, Liz. He won’t wake. He has taken sleep aids, something he only does when he is very distraught.”

Dembe opened the door and urged her forward into the room. Red’s room. It was dark inside, the only light from the moon shining through the slats in the blinds. Dembe closed the door behind her. She was inside of Red’s room now, alone with him. She took a deep breath. She shouldn’t be here. This was such an invasion of his privacy. She turned back toward the door, contemplating walking out, until she remembered his invasion of her privacy earlier today. He had looked into her mind without permission, sifting through a lost life; all she had to do was look at his back.

She turned to the bed then. And, there he lay on his stomach, his arms bent at the elbows and half under his pillow. His head was turned toward her. He looked pinched even in sleep, sad and lost. He looked like she felt. And, her heart burned, and her stomach quivered at the sight of him. Unprotected, unarmed, asleep, alone, human. No different from her. And hot tears rolled down her face. The tears she wanted to cry when she sat in that chair telling him that she understood what they really were to each other. She wanted to tell him then that she felt betrayed, that it felt like something precious had been stolen from her. It had hurt her so deeply to learn that their only connection was an object and not something far greater and deeper. 

Looking at him now, she wondered if that hurt extended beyond herself. He appeared shirtless but was covered by a blanket to nearly his shoulders. The dim light forced her to move closer to see him better. She was very close to the bed then, so close her knees touched the mattress. She slowly and ever so carefully lifted the blanket covering his back. Her fingers shook, her heart in her throat, and her breath came in short bursts. Then she saw. 

She gasped and dropped the blanket near his waist. “Oh my God, Red,” she whispered aloud. 

It was all revealed to her. His mangled, puckered back; his pain and struggle; and the evidence of his involvement beyond an object. What did this mean? Had he been the man on the floor of her burning house? Had her spotty four-year-old memory been confused, as Dr. Orchard had suggested? She had thought it was her father on the ground. 

There was so much she didn’t know, so much she needed to understand, but she did know now that Red did not escape unscathed. He had remained in the house long enough to be hurt by that fire. Why? How? 

“Lizzie.” 

His voice startled her so much that she fell forward and had to catch herself with her hands on the mattress near his body.

“Lizzie.” His eyes were closed still. He seemed to be dreaming, and in pain. He began to writhe. “Lizzie!” He yelled this time. 

As frightened as she was to be found by him in his room, she could not help herself. She spoke: “Red. It’s okay.”

He didn’t hear her. He kept calling for her, louder and louder. She began to panic. Should she get Dembe? But, then, what? They would both be in his room upon his waking. 

“Lizzie, go back! Go back! Go back!” He was frantic. She had never heard him like this. She needed to help him. 

She climbed onto the bed. Kneeling next to him, she put her hands on his shoulders and shook him. “Red! Wake up! You are dreaming. Wake up!” 

Finally his eyes opened. She towered over him, peering into his face, her eyes as wild as his. He didn’t say anything at first; he was still lost between reality and a decades old nightmare resurrected. His feverish eyes searched hers for long seconds, and then he spoke: “You should have left me there and run and never looked back.” He chastised her fiercely, even as his eyes began to close once again. 

Her heart was pounding painfully against her chest. She shook him again, “What do you mean, Red? Red! Wake up, and tell me what you mean!” She was losing out to the powerful sleeping pills. He was still asleep.

This day had been too much – too painful, too physically taxing, too emotionally draining. She was exhausted and beyond frustrated. But, she wanted answers, and by God, he had them, at least some of them. She needed to know what he meant just then, and she was not waiting. Without thinking, she moved on top of him, straddling his waist, and using her new found leverage, she rared back and slapped him across the face as hard as she could. “Wake up, you son of a bitch,” she yelled. 

At that, his eyes popped open. He was awake. She saw clarity in his eyes, and anger. He didn’t speak for the minute it took him to gather his wits and assess the situation. By the time he opened his mouth, the anger in his eyes had morphed into something altogether more dangerous. “Well, well, Lizzie. What do we have here? Earlier today, you didn’t want me to touch you, and now look at you. In my bed, on top of me, with your hands doing all manner of things,” he chuckled, low and deep, menacingly. She blushed profusely, even as heat gathered in the pit of her stomach at his implication. “You are full of surprises, sweetheart. So hot and cold, so hard to read. So, why don’t you tell me what it is you need? What can I do for you?”

His voice was seductive, hypnotic, and she was beginning to lose perspective. He had never spoken like that to her, and it was doing things to her insides. She felt his hands lift off of the bed and onto her thighs. The weight of them distracted her, and she looked away from his face to his warm hands, and watched as those hands began to travel upwards. 

She swallowed and took a deep breath. It felt too nice, too incredibly good – the weight of him beneath her, the feel of his touch on her, the inviting darkness of the room, the smell of him around her. All of it was too good. And, damn him for knowing it, for playing her again. “Stop it, Red,” she said, but it came out husky and wanting. She looked at him then, but his eyes were on her legs. She cleared her throat and spoke more clearly, “Hey? Stop it.”

His hands stopped moving, but they didn’t leave her thighs. He lifted his gaze to meet hers, and he had the nerve to give her what she could only describe as a pouty look. “I know what you are doing,” she said, accusingly.

He blinked his heavy-lidded eyes at her and grinned, “Well, I hope so.”

She shook her head. “No. You are trying to gain the upper hand here, and you are not going to get it. You are not playing me this time. I came here for information. I have already gotten some, but I need more. And, I’m not leaving here until you give it to me.”

“Well, I could be vulgar and tell you that is what I am doing precisely – trying to give it to you – but, I won’t. What would you think of me then, Lizzie?”

“Not much less than I do already,” she said, distastefully, but her blush returned to betray her, creeping up her chest and flaming her face. He followed it to her eyes and whatever he saw there softened him. He patted her thighs then and removed his hands. The loss of their comforting weight made her feel cold. 

“I hate to ask, truly I do, but can you let me up, so I can dress? Then, we can talk. I have some questions of my own for you,” he said. 

She thought for a moment. Their current position was compromising, embarrassing even, but that could work to her advantage. He was not going to like her line of questioning, and she was not going to allow him to get away from her, not until she was done. 

“Lizzie?” 

“I don’t think so, Red. I think we are going to talk just like this.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, commenting and leaving kudos. All make me so happy!

Red ran his hand down his face and shook his head, laughing derisively. “Do you know how easily I could remove you?”

“I do. But, you won’t,” she said, more confidently than she felt.

“Oh? And, why is that?” He was getting frustrated. She looked down at his bare chest, moving up and down more swiftly now than a moment ago. She had to play her hand carefully, and not reveal too much too soon. He was in a vulnerable position, and given the wrong answer from her, he would attack. 

“Because I am pretty sure you are naked, and I think there are number of things you may not want me to see,” she answered smugly.

“I have nothing to be ashamed of, I can assure you, Lizzie,” he retorted. 

“Tell me what you know about the Fulcrum,” she said, getting down to business. 

He narrowed his eyes at her. “How did you get here?” He asked, leaning forward slightly, careful not to lift his shoulders off the pillow, sniffing the air. “You smell of alcohol, Tequila to be exact. That bit of coffee you drank can’t mask the vapors seeping out of you. And, it is,” he turned his head to look at the clock on the bedside table, “2:05 in the morning. Given your inebriated state and the discreet location of this house, I doubt you drove here alone, which leaves Dembe. Dembe brought you here. Because you wanted to come? Or, because he wanted you to?”

“The Fulcrum,” she persisted. 

“No, Lizzie. If you want answers, you will give some. That is how this is going to work. Or, I will lift you off of me and make sure you are returned from whence you came with nothing.”

Naked and prone, and he was still dictating to her. “You are a bastard,” she said.

“On the contrary. I am trying to work toward a compromise with you. I will get what I want, and you will get what you want,” he explained, as if they sat across a conference table from one another. All she had to do with lift up and slide her bottom back ever so slightly, and she was quite sure she could shut him up. That thought brought a small smile to her face. 

He misunderstood and smiled back, “So, it is settled then. Tit for tat. I will go first. Are you here because you wanted to come here or was this Dembe’s misguided idea? 

She shook her head, huffing at him. “Why does that matter? And, why do you get to go first?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “My game, my rules. Answer the question.”

“Dembe found me and brought me here,” she said. He bit the inside of his lip and nodded at her, a flicker of something passing over his eyes. Disappointment? She couldn’t be sure. “Now, my turn. Tell me what you know about the Fulcrum.”

“I already told you what I know – when we were in the boiler room at the prison. I don’t have it. I don’t know where it is,” he admitted. “It’s important to your safety – and mine – that it is believed to be in my possession. I have taken steps to ensure that remains the prevailing belief. Luther Braxton is no longer a threat. He had been dealt with appropriately.” He was more forthcoming than she expected. But, in a lot of ways, this line of questioning was the easy portion of tonight’s conversation. 

She had one more tricky question related to the Fulcrum before she moved on: “Can you tell me what form the Fulcrum takes? Is the information in hard copy files or on a chip or a jump drive?” she asked trying to remain detached and clinical, careful to not give away that she possessed what could be the coveted Fulcrum. She would not share that with him. Not unless or until that knowledge became a necessity to survival – hers or his. 

He paused and searched her eyes. At length he answered her: “I don’t know.” But, he could read her, and she knew she had unwittingly given something away. He continued his patient perusal of her face, before saying quietly, “You asked two questions, Lizzie. Now I get to ask two.”

Desperate to conceal her anxiety, she only ventured a nod. He pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes. He took in their positions on the bed, his eyes slowly making their way from her bend jean-clad legs covering his torso to her arms hanging loosely at her sides to her straight, stiff back to her elongated neck and lifted chin to her eyes staring at an arbitrary point on the ceiling. 

“Are you uncomfortable, Lizzie?” he asked, softly.

She looked down at him then. “What?”

“That is my first of two questions. You look uncomfortable. You experienced a lot of physical trauma over the past couple of days. Are you physically uncomfortable right now?”

She was at a momentary loss for words. He looked so concerned. She didn’t detect any sarcasm or ridicule in his question. She felt stinging behind her eyes, the precursor of tears. He sounded like he cared, and as much as she needed him to stop pretending to, she so desperately wanted that care from him. She finally found the strength to answer him. “No. No, I’m okay,” she said quietly.

He sighed and shook his head slightly, “I was under the impression that we were being truthful with one another tonight, but I am finding that to not be the case. I don’t believe you, Lizzie. I think your neck and back are hurting you. If you insist on staying perched above me, then you need to relax, or you will acerbate the problem.”

He was getting too personal. She needed them to stay on track. “What is your next question, Red?” she asked. 

“I’d like to know why you are seated atop me this way. I am not complaining, mind you, just curious how this all came about,” he said seriously. 

“You surprise me, Red. Of all the questions you could ask me, these are the kinds of things you want answers to – if I feel well, if I was coerced into coming here, if I choose to sit here or somewhere else,” she said.

“These are the only answers that matter, Lizzie,” he said earnestly. “I have never pretended to care about you. And, I certainly won’t pretend not to care about you now. My concern for your well-being has never been anything but honest, no matter what you believe.”

She felt her resolve slip at his words, and she sagged against him slightly, her bottom nestling more snugly on his lower stomach. He closed his eyes briefly at the pleasant added weight and what it meant. She had relaxed, at least a little, at his words. 

He placed his hands on her thighs again cautiously, wondering if the connection soothed her as it did him, and asked her his question once more: “So, Lizzie, what happened that you are right here with me?”

She took a deep breath, knowing this would start the next series of questions. “I came in, and you were having a nightmare. You were calling my name, telling me to ‘Go, back,’ and then something like I should have left you there and run. I shook you, but you weren’t waking up. I didn’t realize what I was doing – getting on top of you like this. I just needed you to wake up. I slapped you. Pretty hard. It worked, though. You woke up. And, here we are,” she explained. “I have a question now. My turn.”

He looked at her with dread. His eyes were shifting back and forth, moving as quickly as his thoughts. 

She didn’t give him time to think too much. “Red, what did you mean when you said I should have left you and run and never looked back?”

He hesitated. “It was a dream. I could have meant anything.”

She shook her head at him. Who was not being truthful now? “Red, I’ve seen your back,” she said quietly. He blinked up at her, startled. He worked his mouth, opening it and closing it as he was wont to do when he was uncertain how to proceed or what to say. She saved him the trouble of speaking just yet: “I’ve seen it. And, I believe you were the man I saw on the floor of my burning house. Not my father, but you, Red. How did you survive? What happened to my father and the others?”

He lay there unmoving, his eyes on the ceiling, deep in thought. He was starting to distance himself from her. She could feel it, and she couldn’t allow it. Not now. She put her hands on top of his on her thighs and squeezed them slightly. “Red, tell me,” she pleaded quietly. “Please.”

He took a deep breath and finally tilted his head toward her. “Oh, Lizzie,” he said, so full of pain. “It is so much better for you not to remember any of this, to know any of this.” His distress pained her, but she needed him to speak. 

“Please,” she said, coaxingly. “You agreed to answer my questions. That was our deal.”

He peered so intently at her, looking for something that she couldn’t name. Eventually resolve mixed with sadness took root on his face, and he nodded his acquiescence. “Your father was shot that night, fatally. I’m sorry, Lizzie. Word had gotten out that he had stolen the Fulcrum. People wanted it back. He endangered you by taking it. There was no excuse for that. I don’t know all of his reasons for doing what he did. I just know it was done, and there were those tasked with retrieving what he took.

“In the fight to get the Fulcrum back, to convince him to reveal its location, someone shot him. To cover it up and to protect the information from ever being found by anyone else, fire was set to the house. Those of us there left by the front door. I was the last to leave, Lizzie. I had been against the course of action taken for reasons I won’t get into now. My reluctance to leave him on the ground of that burning house made me linger. The smoke was getting bad, the flames were encroaching. I had stepped over the threshold of the door when I heard something distantly – what sounded like a child screaming. 

“No one knew you were in the house, Lizzie. I promise you. The others were long gone. I couldn’t not come in for you. At that point it was dangerous. But, I didn’t think about getting out, just going in. I found you in a closet, pulled you out, raced to the door, but something fell on me. A piece of ceiling, I think. I don’t know still. It doesn’t matter. I passed out. I am not sure how long I was out. I only woke up, because you stayed and made sure I did. You were a tiny little thing clutching a bunny, screaming for me to wake up. You are the only reason I am alive. I would have most certainly died. Why you didn’t run out and get somewhere safe, I don’t know. I still don’t know,” he stopped then, and looked away from her. “Somehow I stood up. You grabbed my hand and led me out of there. You saved me. My back is scarred, yes, but it is insignificant. You were fine, except for needing treatment for smoke inhalation. You were okay.”

He seemed to have finished. He kept his eyes averted. But, she watched the play of emotions over his face, the sheen over his eyes come and go, and felt his breaths quicken and then normalize. Her hands, which still rested on his, itched to move. She bent forward and lifted one hand to touch his face, ever so gently. His cheek was soft and warm beneath her fingertips. His eyes slipped closed at her touch. 

When she spoke her voice was warm, calm and contemplative, a smooth, soothing melody, reaching deep within him, touching a chord long unused but not forgotten. “I thought by staying in this position, literally over you, I could maintain the upper hand, make you talk, make you answer me. But, I didn’t understand yet. I do now. Neither of us has the upper hand. We are equal in this, Red. I saved you, and you saved me. Without you, I am dead. Without me, you are. I wanted there to be a connection, I wanted you to be here because of me, not because of the Fulcrum, not because of an object. I needed this to matter, for us to matter somehow. I needed you to not be pretending. More than any answer, more than any memories, I needed the here and now to matter.”

He opened his eyes and lifted his hand to cover hers at his cheek. “You are the only thing that matters,” he said.

There was still so much to understand, but the fundamental thing, who they were to each other, had been answered. He was essential to her existence, and she was essential to his. The rest, as he had assured her many times in the past, would come. She felt sure of that now, more than she ever had. For now, she had what she needed. She would thank Dembe later. He was a very smart man. 

As she moved her hand from his cheek and began to straighten her back, she winced. Something had caught, and it was all she could do not to cry out in pain. 

“My God, Lizzie. I told you you needed to relax your back. Please don’t move. Let me help you,” he said, taking charge. He was a man she recognized, confident, fussing over her. She would smile if she could. Instead, she was stuck, leaning over him, face contorted. 

“Red, what are you going to do,” she asked, breathing through the pain. 

“We are going to switch positions. You need to straighten out and fully relax. Then, we are going to get my masseuse over here to work on you,” he explained. “Now, Lizzie, you were right about something.”

“What was that, Red?” she grunted.

“I am naked, so unless you want to be privy to too much too soon, close your eyes,” he said. 

Before she knew what was happening, he slipped out from under her, took hold of her waist and turned her over. She settled back against the plush pillow with a sigh, her back protesting but minimally. She turned her head to find him.

He faced away from her, but even in the dark room, she could clearly make out his back side. Not bad, she thought. Then she looked higher – at his back. It looked painful, and the reality of all of it tore at her gut. He was slipping on pajama bottoms, unaware of her gathering tears until he was decent enough to turn around. 

He frowned at her then and walked back to the bed. “Is it your back or mine that seems to be the problem?”

She smiled at him, through the tears, and laughed timidly, “Both?”

He nodded and leaned down, kissing her soundly on the forehead. “As it should be, all things being equal.”


End file.
